Here I am wandering again on a Sunday morning. Thinking about every old man as my father. Every old woman as my mother. The beauty of not being sure if the cuckoo is singing in the tree or in my heart. On the outside or on the inside. When we  live without boundaries around the self and find that the outside seeps in and the inside seeps out, we find ourselves in heaven. 

So this is my usual Sunday morning ramble.   

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